Into the bones a dank chill creeps,
“Where am I?” suddenly, the searching question.
And then the keys, “Where the hell
did I put them?” he asks. Surrounded

by strange scents. Like a sonnet’s bare frame,
the scaffolding of sentences stand
all around: “Construction site: the House
of Language.” I put things in metaphysical order,

and dash into the all-night
grocery.“Blood pudding, my dear, and instant coffee?”
a voice asks on the darkened stairs.

Perhaps it will end in violent passion. . . .
But don’t worry. Cupid has today off.
All’s well that ends well. Roughly.

- from Final Matters, Selected Poems: 2004-2010, by Szilárd Borbély